The grim sunrise.
This is what she saw: a swamp, and endless swamp, pools of black, stagnant water surrounded by festering, muddy earth. A putrid smell, a smell of death, always present, getting into her nose and make her nauseous. No life. Or rather, no life of any importance. Here and there, near the pools of rotten water, some grayish bushes struggled to stay alive, the green of their leaves long since gone. A handful of trees could still be found, not in much better shape than the dying bushes though: their trunks bent, almost touching their own roots, their leaves faded, despoiled. Swarms of carrion insects fly around them, still feeding on the carcasses of the last creatures foolish enough to cross the swamp.
A wind blew from the north, cold and unforgiven, bringing with it deep gray clouds of thunder that remained silent. There is no sound in that world. There is no absolute darkness either: it was around the time of the sunrise, of the dawnbreak, and light poured through the dense clouds. But that light, as the clouds, as the earth below, was dull and lifeless, and the sunrise was nothing but a grim sunrise.
In the very middle of the swamp, there was a house. Or something that vaguely ressembled a house, for it had four walls and a ceiling of sorts. Its walls were made of rotten wood, probably chopped from the last trees of the mire. Its ceiling was made of wood and a blanket of dead leaves. There was no door, only a opening to get into it. There was also a huge stone outside, shaped like a sort of bench, where he sat.
He. The master of the swamp, the ruler of that god-forsaken world. Sitting outside, as if watching his decaying kingdom, as if giving it the last touch of a nobility long gone. He looked at her across the mire, his dark eyes penetrating hers, not letting go, quietly accusing, quietly blaming. Screaming silently of a past glory, of a bitter loss, of a proud defiance, as if saying you destroyed me and yet I am here. My world is dead and yet here I stand. She couldn't stand it, to see it now. She could not avert her eyes. All she could do was to gaze back at him across a world of death.
A wind blew from the north, cold and unforgiven, bringing with it deep gray clouds of thunder that remained silent. There is no sound in that world. There is no absolute darkness either: it was around the time of the sunrise, of the dawnbreak, and light poured through the dense clouds. But that light, as the clouds, as the earth below, was dull and lifeless, and the sunrise was nothing but a grim sunrise.
In the very middle of the swamp, there was a house. Or something that vaguely ressembled a house, for it had four walls and a ceiling of sorts. Its walls were made of rotten wood, probably chopped from the last trees of the mire. Its ceiling was made of wood and a blanket of dead leaves. There was no door, only a opening to get into it. There was also a huge stone outside, shaped like a sort of bench, where he sat.
He. The master of the swamp, the ruler of that god-forsaken world. Sitting outside, as if watching his decaying kingdom, as if giving it the last touch of a nobility long gone. He looked at her across the mire, his dark eyes penetrating hers, not letting go, quietly accusing, quietly blaming. Screaming silently of a past glory, of a bitter loss, of a proud defiance, as if saying you destroyed me and yet I am here. My world is dead and yet here I stand. She couldn't stand it, to see it now. She could not avert her eyes. All she could do was to gaze back at him across a world of death.
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